


Dead Eyes

by pythagorean_identity



Series: Kinktober 2020 [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Glove Kink, Implied Sexual Content, Ishval Civil War, Kinktober, M/M, Manipulation, danger kink?, kimblee just has the hots for distruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26788324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pythagorean_identity/pseuds/pythagorean_identity
Summary: Kimblee wants what he can't have.
Relationships: Zolf J. Kimblee/Roy Mustang
Series: Kinktober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953241
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Dead Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Did you miss me? I missed royblee. This is kinda tamer as far as kinktober stuff goes, as there's no explicit sex, just Kimblee being a little weird. I've actually never tried to write more from his point of view, so this was interesting. Hope you enjoy!

Kimblee was always aware of where he began and where he ended. Especially with his alchemy, it was a very important thing to be aware of. His senses were vital, precious. He was proud of his sharp eyes, and his acute hearing. He kept good care of himself, as well. He kept his nails trimmed, combed his hair each morning and evening, and bathed regularly. His body was his weapon, after all. The other soldiers crawled through the rubble of his creation, tearing and cutting and breaking, bumbling about like the careless creatures they were, a reeking, snarling pack of dogs. 

Kimblee did not  _ crawl _ . If he had to keep a low profile, he slunk, like a prowling cat. He wasn’t just another yapping idiot with a gun, he was a state alchemist. He was too important to be hurt. He was too  _ powerful _ to be hurt. 

He didn’t linger with the soldiers, either. Or the other alchemists, for that matter. Though, the Flame alchemist intrigued him. His eyes were delightfully dead, but he was usually flanked by other soldiers, however, finding solace in huddled groups around a campfire, telling stories to try and forget that they were camped in a desert ruin.There was never a chance to ask him for a demonstration of alchemy. 

Finally, Kimblee took matters into his own hands, and followed the Flame alchemist out onto the battlefield one day. Watched as he slid tough, soldier’s hands into alchemist’s gloves, and with a single snap of white-clad fingers, ignite the already scorching air. In that same snap, Kimblee was enamored. He  _ wanted. _ The Flame alchemist was a selfish weapon, but did not delight in his power the same way Kimblee did. A shiver shot down his spine despite the climbing temperature, what sort of destruction would Flame bring if he was given a philosopher’s stone? 

After that day, Kimblee kept a closer eye on the Flame alchemist. He didn’t laugh at the stories and jokes his fellow soldiers told around the campfires, and sometimes he collapsed into bed still streaked with ash and blood. His hair was cut short and rough. On more than one occasion, Kimblee had seen him simply dunk his head into a basin of soapy water to clean his face and hair of grime and ash. For all the splendor he had on the battlefield, the Flame alchemist was a rather disappointing and ordinary man. 

Despite how ordinary Flame was, Kimblee couldn’t forget what he’d seen that first time he’d snuck out after the other alchemist. He  _ wanted _ . Those dull-dead dark eyes, pale gloved hands. Kimblee wanted to know what the Flame alchemist sounded like when Kimblee held him down by the throat and fucked him. He wanted to know what it felt like when the Flame alchemist clung to him, what those white alchemist’s gloves would feel like against his back, his shoulders, wherever Flame would grab for purchase. Most of all, he wanted to see more of Flame’s destructive alchemy. It was beautiful, the fire leaping to life and dancing through the sandswept streets. What would it take to get Flame to appreciate his alchemy in the way that it deserved to be, the way Kimblee did? 

Finally, he got the chance to be alone with Flame. In fact, Flame was the one who sought  _ him _ out. 

“I saw you yesterday,” he said, blunt and to the point. “Why were you following me on the battlefield?”

Kimblee smiled, and gestured to the crate next to him, offering the other alchemist a seat.

“I wanted a chance to see you at work. I had heard so many rumors, I wanted to know if it was true.”

Flame frowned.

“If what was true?”

“That you leave no survivors. Like me. What a good soldier you are.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. Flame’s face twisted. 

“Ah. My apologies,” Kimblee said. “Please, sit. I would like to talk with you. I haven’t had an interesting conversation since getting here. Everyone else is such a bore.”

Like a puppet, or toy soldier, Flame sat, dead eyes watching Kimblee warrily. 

With some careful, well placed questions on alchemy and some interesting chemistry concepts, he coaxed Flame into talking. It didn’t light a spark in him, but slowly, they inched closer. Kimblee played the part of a fellow scientist, and when Flame left for the night, he was sure that Flame would return the next day.

And he did. 

Kimblee lured Flame closer and closer, until finally, two weeks later, he could place a hand on the other alchemist’s leg. Under the coarse fabric of his uniform pants, the Flame alchemist felt just as warm as his title. Kimblee’s heart stepped up in tempo slightly as he tested the waters, but Flame reached down, lifting Kimblee’s hand into his own. The fabric of his gloves, too, was rough. Rougher than the uniform. Flame turned Kimblee’s hand over silently, looking at the transmutation circle tattooed onto his palm. 

“You have nice hands,” he said finally. “Pianist hands.”

Kimblee laughed.

“I have alchemist’s hands, though I appreciate the compliment.”

“Do you play?”

“The piano, no. Though I do favor percussion, I find the piano too soft.”

Flame quirked an eyebrow.

“Too soft?”

“Have you heard the 1812 Overture?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“A shame. When you get the chance, you should.”

Flame did not let go of his hand.

Flame’s guilt and desire for repentance for the lives he claimed, along with his craving for human contact, and the slow trust that Kimblee built with him, eventually lead the younger alchemist into his bed. Reeking of burning bodies, streaked with soot and dusted with rubble, Kimblee finally claimed a kiss from Flame on the way back from the battlefield, and Flame, with his gloves still on, clung to Kimblee for dear life. It was pleasant, but it didn’t satisfy Kimblee. He still  _ wanted _ . Even in the burnt out shell of a building, or in the thin privacy of one of their tents, it was like Kimblee couldn’t get what he truly  _ wanted _ from Flame. Even wreathed with the evidence of his power, half-in and half-out of his uniform, hands still in his ignition gloves, Flame never  _ claimed _ the destructive power he held sway over. 

Kimblee let Flame fuck him, hard and fast and hurried after a battle, but it still wasn’t enough. 

The war was coming to a close, and Kimblee would not leave satisfied. The thought struck him as he sat staring down at the smoldering ruins below his perch. He would not be allowed to keep his philosopher’s stone. And Flame would not realize his true power, would not step up to own the destruction he caused in the way Kimblee longed for him to do. 

Kimblee was not going to get what he wanted. Not from Flame. Not now, at least. Not when peace was being brokered. 

On his last night, he let Flame stay to sleep with him, something Flame had occasionally asked for but Kimblee had never permitted. Tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter. He’d done his best to earn Flame’s trust, his admiration, maybe even his love. That wasn’t enough. Tomorrow, no doubt, he would lose all that, and gain the hatred of the Flame alchemist in it’s place. In doing so, he would lose Flame. He would most definitely lose the ability to have close contact with another human being. Perhaps he would even lose his life. 

But he would not lose the Philosopher’s stone, the one thing that had truly managed to bring joy to his life other than his Alchemy. 

Flame mumbled something in his sleep, and pressed his face against Kimblee’s shoulder, snuggling closer on the narrow cot. Kimblee endured it. He wouldn’t get such a luxury again for a long time.


End file.
